


Miscommunication

by elarielf



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fail!flirting, Gen, mindgames, possible pre-slash - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 04:42:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elarielf/pseuds/elarielf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John tries to confess to Sherlock that he has a crush on him, Sherlock derails the conversation, and John realizes that maybe not everything that manipulative geniuses say is the absolute truth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Miscommunication

The confession was as awkward and embarrassing as it was sudden. Also, it wasn’t a real confession. Also, it was really only awkward and embarrassing for John.

As usual.

“I’m not into guys.”

It might have helped if they’d just escaped from some imminent danger, or discovered something so cleverly hidden that no one else would have been able to, or been drunk. Or at least in the same room.

But they weren’t. John was in the kitchen, not drinking the tea he’d just made, and Sherlock was looking out the window, ‘thinking’ as usual. There was no trigger, no reason, and John couldn’t really explain why he’d just blurted that out other than the fact that it was completely true. Well. Mostly completely true.

Sherlock looked away from the window, John’s exclamation apparently at least worth the effort it took to rotate his hips twenty degrees. “…neither am I.” He didn’t ask. _Of course_ he wouldn’t ask, Sherlock _never_ asked if he thought he could figure it out on his own.

…that thought was terrifying for John. He’d never been afraid of Sherlock deducing him before. He knew he was easy to read – Adler had read him in a second and…

“And look at us both.”

Sherlock frowned, and John had to admit that was somewhat gratifying. It was lonely being the only one completely lost. “What are you getting at, John?”

“I don’t rightly know.” At least that was easy enough for John to admit. He’d had practice. “I just thought… well, that is… I like girls. And you…”

It was the phone. Sherlock taking things wasn’t new, particularly around his cases, even when they were active (…especially when they were active) but he’d wanted Irene Adler’s phone and he hadn’t just taken it, he’d…

He’d said ‘please’. Taking wasn’t new. Asking ( _begging_ ) was.

Sherlock had fully turned, facing John straight on, although he hadn’t moved from the window. John felt a strange rush of victory just from getting his full attention. That couldn’t be healthy.

“And I what?”

John swallowed. Hard. “If… if you wanted to talk. About… her. Or anything to get your mind off her. Anything at all…” Good lord, he sounded desperate. “I’m just saying I’m here. That’s all.”

“And you felt you had to precede this by clarifying your heterosexuality. Again.”

Oh, what the hell. Stupid Mycroft and his stupid questions about what lay in Sherlock’s stupid heart. “It’s just you never showed an interest in anyone else before, and you never got the chance to… And I’m just saying I’m not into guys, but if you wanted, I would… I wouldn’t say no. Is all. Just to get you over this.”

Sherlock moved towards him, and John tried not to tense up. “To get me over what?” He sounded genuinely curious, and a little amused. “What didn’t I get the chance to do?”

“You know…” John waved his hand helplessly in the air. “Stuff. I mean, I left you two alone in the apartment, but Mrs. Hudson said nothing happened, and then Mycroft’s man intervened and I…” John’s voice trailed off and Sherlock just stood there, waiting. Patiently.

“You know exactly what I meant, don’t you.”

“I assume so. If I assure you that I’m completely over _her_ , and that any missed opportunities weigh very little on my mind, will that be enough to reassure you?”

_No, because you’re a liar and probably the last person who can reasonably assess your own feelings_. “I guess.”

“Well, then.”

John felt something unwind inside him, something that the tension had been keeping hold of. “So. You’re not heartbroken, then?”

Sherlock scoffed. “Hardly.”

“Oh, good. Because the last thing we needed was you running off to America.” The words came easily. Too easily. John felt out of control. “You know, racing after her like some obsessed–”

Sherlock slammed his hand on the counter and John jumped. In the span of two heartbeats, Sherlock leaned in, his eyes darting over John’s face, then sighed with relief. “Ah. You don’t know. Just a lucky guess.”

“What do you mean?”

Sherlock shrugged. “This conversation will doubtless continue in one form or another unless you get out what you actually want to say, John.”

John blinked. “Were you in love with her?”

“Don’t use the past tense. That rather gives the game away.”

John could feel himself flushing, although whether from embarrassment or frustrated anger, it was hard to tell. Games and pretences… “You knew I was lying.”

“Of course I did. A witness protection scheme? In America? They can’t keep common gangsters away from their targets, never mind actual masterminds. Even if she’d somehow gotten into one, she would have run off almost immediately – too risky.”

“She’s dead.”

“Again? That does seem to be a trend with her…”

“No, I mean she was probably dead soon after she sent her last text.” The horrible thought that perhaps that text wasn’t from her ( _Moriarty_ ) crossed John’s mind and he hoped Sherlock couldn’t read it.

If he could, he ignored it. “So Mycroft thinks. At least that’s what Mycroft wants you to think he thinks.” Sherlock waved it off. “Don’t bother chasing for truths with him – it’s futile and frustrating at best.”

“Sherlock, she’s dead and you’ve known for weeks and you’re refusing to deal with it. I know you like to think you’re untouchable, but–”

“No.”

“…what?”

“No, I wasn’t in love with her. And she wasn’t in love with me although, for a moment there, I did have her convinced that she was.”

“… _what_?”

Sherlock smiled. “She played my game, John, and played it better than I could. So I played hers.”

“Oh…” That brought on a few… _odd_ mental images. “But then… wouldn’t Mrs. Hudson have heard something?”

Sherlock’s smile vanished under an expression of pure exasperation and that, coupled with the idea of Sherlock wielding a riding crop against a not-dead body, made John’s lips twitch. “Not the dominatrix game, although there was a bit of that near the end… no, the game of seduction. But the problem becomes this, John – how do you seduce a woman who’s specifically and well guarded against that very line of attack?”

“…get her drunk?”

“Wrong idea, stab in the dark, but you’re not far off,” Sherlock said, openly amused. “Allow me to demonstrate. You miss wearing your army uniform.”

“No I don’t.” There were a lot of things about the military John missed. The uniform wasn’t one of them.

“Of course you do. You tend towards drab beige and greens for shirts, with exceptions proving that rule such as that _thing_ you wore to the Christmas party. You don’t iron them regularly, just enough to maintain the scent of starch. Your jackets have more pockets than you need to compensate for the fact that your pants have fewer than you’re used to. You wear wool socks–”

“A lot of people wear wool socks.”

“–even in the summer, which you didn’t before you enlisted. Your pants, like your shirts, aren’t ironed on a regular basis, but they are slightly longer than they need to be for casual wear, as required by the military. You don’t like to wear hats, as they’re too similar to headdresses and you have to keep fighting down an impulse to salute, even a year since the last time you were in formal greens.”

John frowned. He hadn’t thought of it like that… “But those are just habits. They don’t mean I _miss_ the uniform.”

“You scowl at scuffmarks on your old, brown, boots. You button up your shirt all the way and only then undo the top button. When you first moved in and saw anyone – policemen, servicemen, in person or on the telly – in uniform, you automatically looked at their rank insignia. Now, months later, your eyes wander over the entire outfit, starting and ending with their rank. You’ve even openly admired my brother’s shoes.”

“They’re nice shoes,” John said without thinking, holding up a hand to forestall Sherlock’s impatient sigh. “Fine, yes, I suppose I do miss it on some level. But what does that have to do with–”

“No you don’t.”

“…you’re giving me a headache.”

Sherlock’s grin was one of victory. “You don’t miss it at all. But you think I’m a genius, you think I know you better than you even know yourself. So I’m able to convince you that you feel something you don’t, simply by talking fast and with certainty, countering your arguments almost before you’ve made them. I made at least half that up. You’ve never even noticed Mycroft’s shoes.”

Now that John thought about it, all he could remember about them was that they were black. Probably. “So what was the point of that?”

“That’s what I did to _her_. Tell me John, as a physician, when I describe an elevated pulse, dilated pupils, what comes to mind?”

This was first-year med school physiology. “Sympathetic arousal.”

“And what would cause that?”

John shrugged. “Almost anything activating. Fear, excitement, waking up suddenly, running for a bus when you’re late, numerous drugs, withdrawal from numerous other drugs…”

“And if one were to ask, say, a dominatrix what would cause that…”

“Sexual arousal.” John was starting to get it now. “You made her think that a non-specific physiological reaction was her falling in love with you. But she couldn’t possibly have just believed you.”

“Not just with that. There was a lot of fast-talking like I just did with you. Even then she didn’t believe me so much as allow in enough doubt to lower her defences so that I could read her long enough to find out that she’d chosen an uninspired pun for her password.”

John cocked his head. “What?”

“Sher.” Sherlock snorted. “Her phone read ‘I am SHER-locked’. Low brow humour and a direct dig at me.”

John snickered.

“But for a moment, less than a full minute, she was convinced she might have done it out of some misguided affection. And that conviction told me that my guess was accurate.”

“So you beat her.”

Sherlock shrugged. “That round was mine, but ultimately…”

“Ultimately? She’s dead. That’s pretty ultimate.”

“John, what would you think if I used all the resources in my power to find her, fly to America, say, and rescue her from a gang set on her execution?”

“…that you were a lovesick fool?” Which was what John had been afraid of from the start.

Sherlock nodded. “Indeed. Considering how it all turned out, I’m willing to call it a draw.”

“But you didn’t.”

“Nevertheless.”

John sighed. “I’m never really going to understand you, am I?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Considering how you started this conversation, I think the feeling might actually be mutual.”

What? Oh, right… John winced. “Yeah, let’s just… forget all that.”

“Done.”

In that moment, John really wished he could erase embarrassing things that easily.


End file.
